Storm Crow on the Horizon
by Skandranon
Summary: AU, set 5th season, the story of a forgotten character who deserved better.
1. Prequal

"Storm Crow on the Horizon"

Prequal – "The Falls Tribe"

by Skandranon

Genre – The Tribe

Warnings – AU, possibly some violence later on. It's only one teensy tiny change, really, just one character alive when they're supposed to be dead. That's not so bad, right?

"And I would walk 500 miles  
And I would walk 500 more  
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles  
To fall down at your door" - "500 Miles", TheProclaimers

* * *

The Falls were two hydroelectric generators that, during a more civilized era, had been called the Maraetai Dam, on the Waikato River, in the northern island of New Zealand. But that era had come and gone, and now it was simply The Falls. 

At the height of the previous civilization, the dam had generated 855 GWh of power every year. Now it only produced a fraction of that, but it was more than enough for the inhabitants. All they really needed was a source of energy for light, heating, cooling, and maybe to play some CDs every now and then.

There were 148 of them in all, and they were the Falls Tribe. This was their home. They had fought for it, bled for it, and by Gaia and the legacy of Zoot, they were going to keep it.

The 148th member spent his sunrises on the bank of the artificial lake, leaning against a log and staring out across the water, fingering the pendant he kept hidden under his shirt. He'd carved it himself. It was crude and a little chipped on the edges, but it'd come out the right shape. That was what mattered.

Every morning, a girl would come fetch him for breakfast. "Come eat," she'd say. And at first he came without hesitation. But as the days wore on, he paused a little longer each time, eyes pinned to the water, and to the land beyond it. She'd wait for him to turn, for the few seconds it took him, and later, the few minutes. She'd wait until she thought he'd never turn, and then he would. He'd smile ruefully and follow her to breakfast, and they'd keep their silent agreement to not speak of it.

Many of the tribe had come from other places, other tribes. They'd lost loved ones and friends along the way. It wasn't unusual for them to succumb to occasional nostalgia. But this was their home now, and eventually they'd snap themselves out of it and go about their lives.

But this tribe member didn't. The past wore on him. It chafed around the edges. Instead of the moody, regretful quiet that usually came with such memories, his carried a tense edge, a sharp bite. There were things he'd left undone, she knew. Things he couldn't ignore.

It didn't surprise her when the morning came that he didn't turn around. There was something about the muscles in his back that spoke of finality. And she knew with a certainty beyond her years, that he'd be gone by the next morning, and she would never see him again.

"You can take my horse," she blurted out. "I'll pack food and clothes and everything you need."

He nodded.

"Where will you go?"

He turned then, but his eyes weren't looking at her. "I have a child out there somewhere, and its mother. They may still be alive. I'll look for them."

"I hope you find them."

That was all that could be said, really.

He took off his pendant and pressed it into her hand. "Something to remember me by." The rough edges of the wooden pentacle dug into her palm, but she clutched it fervently.

And he walked away. It was a movement that seemed natural to him.

"Good luck Bray," she whispered to the lake.

* * *

Author's Notes – all info on the dam is accurate. Except for the part where society collapses and the dam is taken over by a bunch of teenagers. That part I made up. 


	2. Following the River

"Storm Crow on the Horizon"

Ch 1 – "Following the River"

by Skandranon

* * *

The Polers didn't trust strangers. But they didn't ask questions either. They didn't really talk much at all, at least not while he was around them. If they remembered who he was, they didn't say, and if he remembered who they were, he couldn't recognize them. They had developed a fondness for large floppy hats, and most of the time he couldn't see their faces underneath.

Hemlock stood quietly by his side, hooves steady on the wooden raft. It was designed to take such weight, so long as he was still, and Hemlock was a very old, very patient, very still horse. Healthy, but old. He'd seen too much in his life to bother panicking over a ride upriver.

The Polers mostly ignored the both of them and pulled away at their heavy rope, which stretched up and down river as far as was visible. They took shifts at the work, two pulling, three resting. They'd been at it all morning, since they left Makino Fort, and wouldn't stop until sundown.

He and his horse weren't the only cargo today. Crates of charged batteries lined the middle of the raft, wrapped in cloths and pillows to protect them from the water. The dam's greatest export was energy. The batteries would be sold to the tribes along the river for their flashlights and heaters. Then the drained batteries would be shipped back to the dam and recharged, then sold again. When the raft returned to the Fort, it would be carrying crops and crafted goods, but on this trip it was batteries.

A child no more than five sat on the back edge of the ferry, pistol in hand. Denim jacket, clumsily knitted sweater, and grey sweatpants covered most of him, and a faded plaid scarf and baseball cap the rest. His eyes were too mature for his height, as he warily scanned the bank for movement.

The adults, if they could be called that, murmured to each other on their rest breaks, too low for him to hear only a meter away. The oldest was maybe 20, the youngest maybe 13, but it was difficult to tell under the layers. They glanced at him occasionally, but they paid more attention to the horse than to him, to reassure themselves that it wasn't going to fidget and possibly capsize their craft and cargo.

The Falls Tribe's parting gift to him had been, of course, batteries. Enough to trade for goods and passage. A trip from the Fort to Okur Lake had cost him a fifth of them, and the trip from there to the great city of Taupo would cost him another fifth. A further fifth he'd already spent on supplies. Clothes he had. Bow and arrows he had. Bedding and survival tools he'd been given by the Tribe, along with a few less useful souvenirs. It was food he bought. Jerky and hardbread, canned vegetables and twinkies, anything that could survive a journey under rough conditions. He had a long way to go, and it wasn't through friendly territories.

The journey so far had been pleasantly boring. He distracted himself with painting the toy lion he'd bought at the Fort. Red and orange for a fiery main, and bold blue eyes, and tiger stripes along the spine in green and black. He'd give it to his child whenever he found them. The nail polish left a bright sheen that surely a baby would love, and even better, this type was non toxic.

He'd added a new stripe to his face as well, a bold blue one arching around his eyebrow. It added some variety to the black zigzagging lines that crossed his forehead. New color for a new outlook. New hope.

The boy whistled, and everyone's eyes riveted to the flash of movement on the far bank. Guns and bows were drawn and aimed, and those at the rope held it firm to keep the raft steady. Bray had his bow out and arrow notched, but raising it would make the Polers nervous. He wasn't one of them; this wasn't his fight. But if they fell, he was next.

The water rippled around the edges of the ferry, creating little whirlpools and eddies behind it. Beneath, fish moved about without a care to what went on outside their own world. Birds argued in the branches with warbling chirps. The November spring sun hid behind the trees. Hemlock watched them all with apathy.

The wild cat darted through the bushes, and everyone relaxed. False alarm. The boy received a reproving glance from the eldest Poler, but thinking cats were raiders was better than thinking raiders were cats, so he wouldn't be punished.

Bray returned to his painting and thoughts. The river was dredging up forgotten images of his last trip on it. He hadn't been conscious for most of it, but there were definite memories of being on a raft just like this one, and watching the land go by. There had been a dog. Some sort of collie mutt, with the brown blue eyes. And a little girl who liked to hum.

"Who wants the lettuce?" they had said at reaching Makino Fort. "One barrel of lettuce! What'll ya give me?" Someone had called an offer, and the trade had been made. "Who wants the golf clubs? Ten golf clubs, solid titanium, what'll ya give me?" and "Who wants the milk?" and "Who wants the makeup kit?" and "Who wants the radio?" and "Who wants the fellow there? Maybe 17, 18, good lookin' face, just recovering from injuries, get 'im cheap! What'll ya give me?" An offer made, a new home found, and the next waking had found him with the Falls Tribe.

Some people could afford morality. Some couldn't. He'd been lucky to end up with those who could. A good home, with nothing to worry about for the rest of his life. Except what lay beyond the water.

It was another five kilometers to Okur Lake. Then onto another raft with other Polers who would ignore him just the same, and watch his horse just as carefully. Then on to Taupo, then across the great lake beyond it, then south and south and south along the highway. That would be the dangerous part. There were many Tribes who owned parts of the highway, and not all of them willing to allow travelers. He would have to find a caravan to hook up with and hope for the best, but the best was something that didn't show up often these days.

He painted golden pupils onto the toy lion and admired his handiwork. Wouldn't Amber be pleased when she saw it.

* * *

Author's Notes – Makino is short for Mangakino, a town near the Maraetai Dam. Okur is short for Ohakurl. Taupo is just Taupo. The toy lion is Mufasa. 


End file.
